


Forbidden Fruit

by undigniFiend



Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons), Trollhunters - Daniel Kraus & Guillermo del Toro
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Gen, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, Nausea, Soft Vore, Tellad-Urr being and feeling Terrible, Tellad-Urr gets fed up in more than one way, Vore, Weird Biology, assuming the worst, briefly imagined hard vore, conflicted feelings, making decisions while feeling cornered and furious, troll/human vore, unless you count guilty comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27430054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undigniFiend/pseuds/undigniFiend
Summary: He flicked the Amulet’s surface with a metal-capped claw. “I can’t escape you. So you can’t escape, either. If I have to be the Trollhunter and nothing else, I’ll do this as the Trollhunter, too. You’re going to watch.”
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Forbidden Fruit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stories_from_Unicron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stories_from_Unicron/gifts).



Tellad-Urr’s hearts pounded, heavy, erratic, and overlapping, as he knelt in the grass with only the Daylight sword to prop him up. It hurt to breathe too deeply, but lungs were uncompromising things, and sweat steamed off his flanks and through his armor as he panted.

Probably a cracked rib or two, he thought. And he could feel a stinging line along his thigh, hot and sticky where his living stone had been sliced through to the softer tissue. It was not the deepest wound he had ever taken, but it would be perhaps his third biggest scar yet. And his skull felt somehow off balance. Just as he was wondering if he had been clubbed in the head hard enough to make him forget the event, he noticed a familiar horn, half-sticking out of the mud where it had fallen. 

How many more pieces of himself would he lose before this thankless duty killed him? He did not bother reaching up to feel the broken stump.

One of Orlagk’s patrols had caught Tellad-Urr off guard. Say what you will about Gumm-Gumms, but they hit hard, and they kept their weapons sharp, and the Daylight Armor was more of an intuitive forcefield. It could only absorb so much from each blow.

Off-guard or not, Tellad-Urr was a quick thinker with a wealth of experience and a magic weapon. The Daylight sword rendered that patrol scattered around him in lumps of sustained deadstone (a strange fate to meet at night, he thought absently), their weapons either still locked in their petrified fists or resting in the grass. He had won, as he had meant to, but reaching Trollmarket on a bad leg before sunrise did not seem worth the effort.

Maybe it would be worth it to sit by the Heartstone, he reconsidered. But he knew from experience that he would not get to soak long in its healing light before seemingly everyone decided he had more work to do for them.

Locking them up for some damned peace and quiet became a more appealing idea each night.

Tellad-Urr realized he was being watched, and turned his head to regard some disheveled fleshbag half-hidden behind a split tree. Probably from the nearby village. Tellad-Urr glanced at the Gumm-Gumm remains for signs of any spoils they carried. None that he could discern. They probably caught him on their way to have some fun and refreshments.

The fleshbag gripped a long-shafted wood-axe in both its hands, but its wide, unblinking eyes looked almost more curious than afraid. 

Tellad-Urr had no interest in entertaining it. Couldn’t he have a moment to recover without someone either attacking or wanting something from him? “Go home, fleshbag.” Whether it understood Trollish or not, he snapped it like an order.

The fleshbag flinched at his tone, but seemed to rally. It took a step around the tree toward him.

Tellad-Urr growled at its audacity, baring teeth and tusks, and letting his hackles rise. His blood was still running hot from the fight, and if this fleshbag was going to make him get up to scare it off, a quiet part of him worried he might be too angry to let it get away. “Pact or not, I will eat you if you don’t leave,” he warned.

He was not certain if he would follow through. Violation of Troll law or not, it would be a cruel death to inflict, but Tellad-Urr was a long way from Heartstone, and an even longer way from help. The thought of a filling meal, especially one that gave him the kind of energy he needed to recover, nearly made him ache for the relief. As the example he was supposed to be, Tellad-Urr had always followed the Pact. But now he could not help thinking about how the Gumm-Gumms regarded fleshbags as Trollkind’s natural prey - and thanks to their diet, they could push themselves harder than any who followed the Pact. Given his own prowess in combat already, how much stronger would he be if he took the opportunity to help himself?

No one else would.

Tellad-Urr’s mouth watered and his tongue absently flicked over his lip to collect the drool before it could spill. A quiet part of him hoped the fleshbag would see and understand the danger it courted, and walk away. Running would engage his instinct to chase, but his bad leg might slow him down long enough for his temper to cool, and he wouldn’t be as angry to begin with if it demonstrated some sense. It was still far enough away that it would have a decent head start.

The fleshbag said something in its soft, airy language - none that Tellad-Urr was familiar with, and though it still looked like any other peasant to him, he began to second guess the idea that it came from the village. Its tone seemed almost conversational, but whether as a friendly effort to calm him, or an attempt to lower his guard, he could not tell. The fact that it still held the axe did not encourage him. He must look worse than he felt. Perhaps it thought it had an opportunity? Killing a troll was a monumental feat for a fleshbag - even more so at night. Why else would it approach a wounded troll if not for the lure of glory? Slowly, it ventured closer, steps as light and creeping as a spider’s, eyes locked on his.

That was too much. Fury eclipsed the pain of his wounds, and Tellad-Urr was distantly aware that he might have been impressed by this fleshbag’s boldness if it had caught him in a better mood. He let the Daylight sword evaporate as he lunged, easily knocking the wood-axe out of the creature’s hands and sending it spinning into the dirt. The fleshbag’s eyes grew impossibly wider, as if somehow it had not expected this reaction, its limbs reflexively flinching close to its chest as he seized it in both hands. Either his grip was too tight, or it was too scared to scream.

And still it stared with those shocked eyes, as if he had somehow betrayed it. As if he was supposed to do something else. Tellad-Urr was sick to the tusks of everyone’s expectations. He would put those eyes where they could not stare at him anymore.

Tellad-Urr opened wide and engulfed the little creature down to its waist, instinctively relaxing his gullet as the fleshbag’s head and shoulders filled it.

A few of its coverings had slipped a bit in the rough handling, and its skin felt good on his tongue and between his lips. Cool, patterned with goosebumps, and saturated in an intoxicating medley of adrenaline and stress hormones. Salty sweet and smooth, with enough give between his teeth that he could vividly imagine biting into the forbidden fruit. He could almost feel the bones crunch and the thin skin tear; the hot, coppery juice of it flooding his mouth, warming his throat, and dripping down his jaws. Dark, shiny viscera steaming in the chilly night. If he could resist the urge to swallow the torso altogether, he could do as he had seen with some Gumm-Gumm leftovers, and break the sternum open to lap up slippery, soft organs out of the ribcage.

But humming underneath, contained in tiny branching vessels and glowing faintly in each cell, he could feel the promise of some familiar energy; warm, nostalgic, and welcome like the radience of Heartstone. Something in him worried that it would evaporate out of the little flesh-body if he broke it open. A skeptical part of him doubted it worked that way, but the image of having all of this fleshbag contained in his belly when it finally gives up its energy was horribly tempting. Tellad-Urr decided he would not bite. He was not sure if he truly could have, anyway.

The first swallow was every bit as easy and natural as it should not have been. His tongue surged, and his throat tightened, rippling and pulling the little body deeper. It started squirming, seeming to snap out of its shock, and Tellad-Urr almost gagged on the unfamiliar feeling. He tilted his head back, holding the fleshbag’s legs up and together so they could not thrash, and guided them in between his jaws as he gulped.

His chest tightened as the moving lump passed through it, almost tickling as it went, if it weren’t for the lingering sting in his ribs. Below it, his stomach turned with the kind of miserable ache that could have been either hunger or nausea. 

With one hand, he pushed the last of the fleshbag between his jaws, boots and all, and with one more swallow, he felt them vanish into his throat. It was so quick and easy it left him reeling. He had not understood before how well his body was built for devouring prey whole. It wasn’t often he spoke to fleshbags, but to do so now would be irrevocably strange with this in his memory, knowing he could do it again.

Still largely in his esophagus, the little creature stopped descending, though it continued to squirm. Tellad-Urr frowned and gulped a few more times to try and coax it lower, one hand feeling over his armored stomach as he tried to determine what went wrong. Two points of pressure hit low in his belly, two small hands bracing, arms outstretched as the fleshbag held itself inverted in its best attempt to delay its fate. Relaxing his stomach to allow for more room might help his meal slip in, but he could only do that so much within the confining Armor.

The Armor was supposed to conform to its wearer. Tellad-Urr felt he could understand why it refused to do so now. He considered dispelling it, and allowing his stomach more room to contain its prisoner. Imagining the relief of it was enough to send his hand up toward the Amulet.

“No,” he snarled, closing that hand into a fist. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To get away from this? To be absolved of it?” He flicked the Amulet’s surface with a metal-capped claw. “I can’t escape you. So you can’t escape, either. If I have to be the Trollhunter and nothing else, I’ll do this as the Trollhunter, too. You’re going to watch.”

If the fleshbag would just fold up, he was sure it would fit. It would be snug, but there had to be enough room. He could feel the little thing’s chest heaving as it panted inside him, exhausted, yet still fighting not to fall any deeper than it already had. It wasn’t squirming anymore, but posed in an awkward position that put pressure on Tellad-Ur’s right lung, and what he was fairly sure was his gallbladder. Squirming had just been tucking it deeper into his stomach, like quicksand. It learned quickly, Tellad-Urr could give it that. But it was also exhausted, frightened, and any attempt to escape came with a significant risk of slipping all the way inside. For now, it was trapped in a waiting game that it would ultimately lose, and its options would run out with its strength.

Or Tellad-Urr’s own will, if it did not diminish sooner. He was tired, and angry, but he had never before thought of himself as cruel. The little human inside him turned out to be weak and helpless, and now that he had a moment to cool off, the idea that it may have intended him harm seemed absurd. Even if it had, a human with an axe was no match for him. It was probably just carrying it for protection. He could have easily just scared it off. And those eyes… Whatever it thought it was doing, it did not ask for the trouble it was in. It trembled, and its shaky little cries and whimpers pierced through the fog of his own pain. Tellad-Urr could feel his gorge rising, the weight of the little body shifting up, catching a wave of nausea. He closed his eyes, caught between swallowing it back down, or leaning over on all fours to help throw it up. The moment passed before he could decide, and as the wave receded, the little body settled deeper. He could barely hear a tiny sob over the rumble of his churning stomach.

The fleshbag cried out as its strength failed, its support shifted, and it tumbled into his belly in a curled up heap, finally succumbing to the path of least resistence. It was so sudden it almost knocked his breath out, and Tellad-Urr huffed as he dropped back to one knee, his stomach feeling overfull between the sudden weight and the confining Armor.

The fleshbag did not seem to think that was the end of the matter. It’s soft body slipped and squirmed, inflicting the gentlest, unpredictably fluttering massage on his stomach lining as it scrambled for the way out. Caught between pleasure and despair, Tellad-Urr groaned and doubled over, trying to recall the last time he had felt a touch so kind.


End file.
